Page 49 of Hold Still

Once I arrive at Ozzy’s place, I give myself another pep talk about staying fully-clothed and head to the front door. Ozzy, dressed—thankfully—in a dark blue polo shirt and khaki shorts, with sandals on his feet, answers.

I hold up the plate of pastries. “Brought you something.”

His eyes light up like a child’s and my stomach flips. Why is he so beautiful? I know he’s a guy, and men aren’t usually beautiful, but he is. He really is.Remember yesterday.

His baritone beckons me inside. “Thank you, McKenna. First Tres Leches and now this. You’re spoiling me. What do we have here?”

“Pastries. Some are jelly filled and others have cheese.”

He selects one—jelly—and takes a huge bite. About half of the pastry disappears. With crumbs and jelly stuck to his face, he says, “Amazing.” He looks at the remainder. “Grandma Gertie’s recipe?”

“Yup.”

“Dayum, I love that woman.” He motions for me to go to the music room, while he detours into the kitchen.

I hurry down the hallway and choose to sit on a chair at the table. Not the sofa, where he could crowd me. And his scent would envelope me. Not. Going. To. Happen.

I’m booting up my computer when Ozzy enters. He nods at me and walks over to his guitar. Looks like he has the same idea as me. What happened yesterday was a mistake that won’t be repeated.

Then why has my chest tightened?

I busy myself by focusing on getting my graphics program up while he plays a few notes on the guitar. My program opens but I continue to stare at the screen rather than look at the rock god next to me. Finally, the strumming ends.

“So, it seems I now have two new songs.”

Bracing myself for the impact of him with a guitar strapped around his torso, I glance at him and smile. “Great.”

He nods. “Let me play you ‘Take Me,’ and then I’ll be ready to let you be the first person to hear my new one, ‘Honesty.’ It’s not done yet, though.”

I bite my inner cheek at the song title, but I remain silent. Knowing he needs my encouragement—and I need his songs—I force my voice to be light and clap. “Can’t wait!”

He plays his first song and I note the changes he’s made. I bet he’ll continue tinkering with it until it’s recorded. And even afterwards, he’ll tweak it for live performances. His imagination is inspiring.

When he finishes ‘Take Me,’ I smile. “That was great. I like what you did at the end.”

“Gracías.” He strums the guitar hard and fast. I cross my ankles and recross them, trying to stifle the shivers coursing through my body at the way he makes love to his instrument. Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Ozzy says, “Here’s what I have so far for my next song. I’d like to know your opinion before I continue.”

He values my opinion. Bowing my head, I give this honor the weight it deserves.

He clears his throat. “Here goes.” He begins playing and the vibe in the room immediately changes from the hard-pounding sex beat of ‘Take Me’ to a power ballad. He sings of love and betrayal and pain and loss. Of being blindsided. And needing honesty.

Not complete, the song stops. I meet his eyes and see the turmoil behind them. This is raw. Clearing my throat, I say, “Wow. Ozzy, that is so, I don’t know. It’s real.”

He takes his guitar off his shoulder. I continue, “I can hear it sung in a huge open-air stadium, with everyone holding up their cell phone lights.” My voice drops, and I give him my honesty. “And wanting to give you a huge hug.”

He opens his arms wide and, without thought, I jump up from my chair. My arms encircle his trim waist as his come down on my shoulders. He pulls me into the solid wall of his torso. With my flat sandals, I barely reach his collarbone.

I inhale the scent of his cologne, mixed with his natural musk. When I flex my arms, he reciprocates by kneading my shoulders. With all my senses heightened, I close my eyes and absorb his breathing. After a minute, my eyes open and I step back from his large body, my neck tilting upward.

I ask, “Care to talk about it?”

His hands caress my shoulders and move down my arms. I’m not sure he’s even aware of what he’s doing to my body because he seems locked away inside himself somewhere. If I’m going to be able to help him, though, being inside his embrace isn’t the best option. “Let’s sit down.”

I turn toward the sofa, his hand sliding down my arm until our fingertips part. We sit. Half-turning to face him, I bring my leg up and under me. His gaze is on the floor.

Silence. I’m not sure if he’s ever going to say anything, but I’m not going to be the one to break the quiet. Besides, he started it with his song.

“I’m not sure where to begin.”

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